A Northern Rose
by Suzume Suzuki
Summary: The descent to hell is easy, and we are only dust and shadow. Or, the culminations of events that led to Lyanna Stark's demise.
1. part one

_-Facilis descensus averno-_

* * *

 **Prologue**

* * *

It was a dark and stormy night. The wind howled and wailed like a wounded beast as the rain came down in hard pellets and beat at the ground incessantly. A burst of lightning split the dark, dark sky and thunder roared through the air. Somewhere, a woman moaned in agony, her voice drowned out by thunder.

"My lady, you must push!"

"Gods be good, I am!"

Another pained groan was emitted from the owner of the voice, a pale-skinned, grey-eyed, and dark-haired beauty. A woman of high birth, she would have been breath-taking if not for her current pitiable, anguished state. The wild beauty she was known to be was replaced by a tired woman with glazed eyes and limp hair that splayed around her head as she lay on the bed, suffering from the agonizing throes of childbirth.

Beside this noblewoman fussed a young maid, as young as her mistress. Only a little older, the maidservant did what she could to assist her mistress, who knew even less of birthing.

"You must push again, and harder, my lady! I can see the crown of the babe. Just a little more, my lady!" urged the the maid to her mistress, earning yet another distressed moan in reply.

The maidservant retreated to fetch a wet cloth and hurried back to care for her lady once again, wiping the sweat off her brow, all the while murmuring encouraging words.

"I want him," the woman on the bed, in reality still just a girl, cried out pitifully, tears welling up in her wide, round eyes. "I want him here with me. Where is my husband?"

"My lady, I cannot answer that question. The only thing I can say is that you must keep pushing."

Even as she spoke those words, the young maid could not help but turn her head to peer out the lone window of the chamber and wonder about the man who left his lover here in this lonely stone tower.

* * *

The candle light dimmed, the woman cried out as another convulsion took hold, and somewhere, pieces of glittering red rubies were swept away by river tides as the storm raged on through the riverlands, oblivious.

* * *

 **I**

* * *

"I will not."

"You will," Lord Rickard Stark thundered, his voice cracking like a whip as he spoke.

Donning a floor-length black cloak lined with wolf fur, the Lord of Winterfell rose to his full height and appeared as ominous as a black thundercloud.

"I have already sent a raven and it is to be final."

His only daughter stood before him, unflinching under his icy glare. She stared back with pursed lips and an equally frosty gaze. For a few heartbeats, father and daughter glowered at each other silently, each attempting to gain the upperhand of some hidden, mental battle. Finally, with very much reluctance, Rickard Stark's daughter relented.

"Very well, Lord Stark, she answered in a low, venomous voice. "Your daughter hears and obeys."

With that, she turned with a pivot and stormed out of her father's study, skirt swishing at her feet.

* * *

 **II**

* * *

Lyanna Stark was thoroughly unimpressed with the Lord of Storm's End, ruler of the stormlands. A tall and finely muscled man, Robert Baratheon was the fantasy of many maidens in Westeros. But Lyanna was no mere maiden; she was a Stark of Winterfell, a she-wolf of the cold, hard North. She would not be swayed so easily. Besides, it was not his looks that bothered Lyanna. The Lord of the Stormlands was also famous for his wenching and already there were rumors that he had sired a bastard girl in the Eyrie.

"He is my best friend and a good man," her brother Ned had told her. "He will love you very much. In truth, I should think that he already does."

Lyanna had only smiled wryly and said, "Love is sweet, dearest Ned, but it cannot change a man's nature."

Alas, her father had already decided that she should become the man's bride and in the end, she could not refuse the Lord of Winterfell.

 _I may have agreed to the betrothal, but I will never accept it._

* * *

 **III**

* * *

"You are lovely, far lovelier than I had imagined," Robert whispered into the shell of her ear, the stink of wine in his breath. Lyanna shivered as she took a step away and turned to the sound of the music.

And you are drunk, Lyanna thought with irritation, her patience wearing thin, cringing as his hold on her hand tightened and nearly crushed her fingers.

She was tired of Baratheon, who only fed her with compliments about her beauty and made ribald japes to make her laugh. She laughed, but they were false laughs, a façade all noblewomen must learn to uphold in high society. And it was the fifth time she had danced with Robert and by now, her feet were tingling with soreness.

* * *

 **IV**

* * *

She had not realized that she was crying until Benjen awakened her from her reverie by saying, "Are you crying?" A moment later, he chuckled in wonder, "Gods be good, you are crying!"

To Lyanna's shock, her cheeks were wet with tears when she touched them. Embarrassed and furious, she stood up and rounded on her younger brother, unceremoniously pouring all the contents of her goblet – fine Arbor wine - over his head and earned a satisfying yelp of surprise from him.

"You dare mock me?" Lyanna huffed, pointing her now-empty wine cup at Benjen, who had stood up from his seat as well, ready to protest.

"Both of you sit down," their eldest brother said in a voice that brooked no argument. "Or I will send the two of you back to Winterfell tonight."

Begrudgingly, Lyanna seated herself again while Benjen announced that he would be off towards their tent to find a new tunic to wear. As he walked off, he glared daggers at Lyanna, promising a further bout later on when Brandon was not around. When Benjen was gone, Ned, the quiet brother, chastised her lightly for behaving so immaturely.

"You should not have done that, Lya."

"He was teasing me and I will not stand for it," came Lyanna's curt reply as she redirected her attention towards the prince with his harp.

The prince must have some unworldly power to be able to produce such a melancholic song that could evoke a deep sense of sorrow within, even inducing tears, Lyanna decided as she watched him play masterfully. When the song finally faded into its conclusion, the prince's hands stopped and came to rest on the strings and everyone in the hall burst into wild applause. For the briefest moment, the prince's eyes landed on Lyanna. Their eyes met, then broke away.

* * *

 **V**

* * *

When Lyanna saw the three bigger boys - squires, most likely, by their attire - shove, kick, and mock the smaller, defenseless man, the wolf in her reared its ugly head in ferocious rage. She recognized the strange-looking victim as a crannogmen of the Neck, and the coat of arms stitched to his shirt marked himself as a member of House Reed, a vassal of House Stark. Lyanna would not tolerate this mistreatment of her father's vassal.

She snatched a tourney sword that happened to be nearby and burst inside, snarling, "That's my father's bannerman you're hitting!"

She beat the squires black-and-blue and sent them scrambling out of the stables like whipped dogs. Lyanna scoffed after them, before turning her attention to the embarrassed man sprawled on the ground that stared at her from behind long shaggy bangs, eyes wide like an owl's.

"I'm Lyanna Stark," she introduced herself, then, holding out a hand, she kindly asked, "What's your name?"

He took the proffered hand politely and murmured as quietly as a mouse, "I am Howland Reed."

He grimaced in pain at the movement and it was then that Lyanna realized that he was wounded.

"The nerve of those squires!" She cried indignantly as she took out a handkerchief and began bandaging the most serious wound on Howland Reed's arm. "We need to get you treated. Come with me."

She grabbed the arm that was uninjured and tugged the timid crannogman away back to the Stark's camp.

* * *

 **VI**

* * *

While everyone merrily feasted and were distracted by the rich mountains of food, she pulled Howland Reed and Benjen to a secluded corner and confided to them that she planned to enter the jousting tournament.

"You can't!" Benjen exclaimed immediately and Lyanna sharply hushed him. He continued more softly, "There's no way they'll let a girl join."

With a mischievous glint in her eye, Lyanna retorted "No one has to know that it's a girl that's jousting."

A pleased feeling arose to see her brother shocked speechless. A look of discomfort crossed Howland Reed's countenance, pink coloring his cheeks.

"Is it because of me?" He mumbled.

Lyanna flashed a wolfish grin at him and whispered devilishly, "I'm going to teach those squires lesson."

In the end, she managed to convince the two males to assist her, and even managed to drag gentle Ned into the plot.

* * *

 **VII**

* * *

Three times she jousted. Three times she bested her opponents. And from each of the three knights, she secured a promise for them to properly chastise their squires.

* * *

 **VIII**

* * *

Her shoulder throbbed in pain from where a lance had nicked her, almost throwing her off the horse, but Lyanna stood her ground despite her discomfort, shield held protectively in front of her. Though, with every passing second, it grew heavier and heavier in her hand. Across from her were two people she wished to see the least – the prince, son of the Mad King, though he seemed perfectly sane and regal astride a white destrier. Beside the prince was Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning, a Kingsguard of high renown.

I must have the worst luck in all of Westeros to be caught dead by these two, Lyanna thought as she watched the two approach with a wary eye.

But to her surprise, instead of arresting her and taking her to the King to face trial, the prince assisted her in hiding the shield, the incriminating object, in a tree. There the shield hung, emblazoned with a smiling heart tree, its owner a mystery should anyone else come upon it.

"I did not know ladies of the North jousted," the prince jested as the three made their way back to camp.

"You will not tell?" Lyanna asked, unbelieving of the favorable turn of events.

His answer came in a conspiratorial wink.

* * *

 _The son is not like the father._

* * *

 **IX**

* * *

The crowd cheered loudly when the first Targaryen prince, the favorite, was named the victor of the tourney and made his way to claim this year's crown of Love and Beauty - a circlet of beautiful blue winter roses from the North. Women tittered and chattered excitedly in the stands, each maiden holding hopes that the prince would crown her Queen of Love and Beauty.

Before, Lyanna had no interest with court and stories and least of all, princes. But now...the crown prince was an intriguing person. He was not the person she had expected. Some interest was sparked within Lyanna, but she knew better than to hope for much. What a foolish thing, to wish for the lovely wreath of flowers, when they all knew the crown prince would crown his wife Queen of Love of Beauty. However, hushed silence fell when the prince skipped over his wife, Princess Elia Martell of Dorne, and instead, moved towards Lyanna's direction.

She hadn't realized it at first, as she had been making small talk with Ned and Benjen. But when the silence persisted and heavy tension arose in the air, Lyanna sensed there was something wrong.

What's this? Lyanna thought in astonishment as the Dragon Prince rode closer on his fine black stallion. What is he doing? Surely he isn't –

Her heart stopped when she realized he was staring intently at her.

When he approached her, stopping right in front of the gallery, directly ahead of her front-row seat, Lyanna felt her entire body become rigid. Her back stiffened and she narrowed her eyes, frowning. She did not like this. The prince may have helped her, once, but she didn't need any rumors following her. She didn't need trouble.

"For you, my queen of love and beauty," the married Prince Rhaegar said with a smile as he carefully tipped the laurel of blue winter roses - her favorite flowers - off his lance and atop Lyanna's dark brown curls. His eyes bore into her own, two pools of deep indigo, a color that was a signature of the Targaryen family.

Lyanna fixed a silent, cold yet curious glare on Targaryen, refusing to move for a few heartbeats. She was very much surprised to see that the heir to the Iron Throne had chosen her, over his wife and all the other fair ladies present at the tourney, as Queen of Love and Beauty. Her three brothers, sitting around her like a shield, all tensed. The look on Brandon's face was one of pure outrage. Ned's face assumed a deathly somber mask, and young Benjen, a child who did not quite understand, looked on with confusion.

After a long silence, Lyanna closed her eyes and with a sigh, gave a minute nod towards Rhaegar, who smiled and said, "Thank you for accepting, my lady,"

Then, he spurred his steed around and slipped away towards the direction of the stables.

As the crowd gradually regained noise and action, whispering here and there of the newest gossip, Lyanna felt a strange feeling surge through her, like a wave washing over the shore.

For some reason, as much as she did not like this development (it was fodder for gossip and gods knew how much Lyanna hated gossip, especially when its contents involved her), she could not help but feel pleased that she had been chosen.

* * *

 **X**

* * *

Lyanna waited silently like a ghost by Prince Rhaegar's tent. When the silver haired prince finally appeared, he was startled to see her there in the dead of the night. Before he could even utter a word, she rounded on him.

"You must take responsibility for crowning me queen of love and beauty," she growled with a sudden fierceness.

This seemed to amuse Rhaegar, for he smiled and replied, "And how will I do this, my lady?"

A brilliant idea had hatched in Lyanna's mind.

"By running away with me."


	2. part two

_-Pulvis et umbra sumus-_

* * *

 **XI**

* * *

Over the course of several months, the two exchanged secret letters by raven. Soon, plans were made. And soon, she would be free of Robert.

 **XII**

* * *

They were married among the ancient weirwoods, with no one but Ser Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar's closest friend, to stand as witness.

* * *

 **XIII**

* * *

His passionate kiss sparked something from within her, and once lighted, it became all-consuming. She wanted more.

Snaking an arm around his slender neck, she pressed closer into him, and clung.

* * *

 **XIV**

* * *

Dorne was much warmer than what she was used to. The brutish sun here burned any uncovered piece of skin maliciously red and the unrelenting heat was a constant thorn in her side. Their poor steed seemed to think the same, snorting and swishing its tail in discomfort.

I miss Winterfell, Lyanna thought wistfully, and not for the first time, I am a Stark and I belong in the North. This is madness.

At that moment, Rhaegar craned his neck to peek at her.

"Ahead, do you see it?" He asked in the low, soothing voice of his, assuaging any doubts or fears. (It was like magic, the way it worked wonders on her)

Curiosity aroused, Lyanna peered from behind his broad back and saw a standing structure in the horizon. It looked gloomy, somehow, tall and solitary.

"That is the Tower of Joy."

* * *

 **XV**

* * *

A moon had passed without having her moonblood, confirming Lyanna's suspicions. She sighed as she stared out the window absentmindedly, the morning sun painting her face with warmth.

"What's wrong?" Rhaegar called from the bed, awaking from his slumber.

Lyanna glanced back at him, her beautiful silver prince, lovely indigo eyes filled with concern. Hesitantly, she answered, "I am with child."

* * *

 **XVI**

* * *

Lyanna slowly blinked open her eyes and let the world come into focus. She shifted, but Rhaegar's arm, curled protectively over the curve of her stomach, restricted her movements. It was dark, save for a single candle burning dimly on the bedside table. A moth hovered nearby. Lyanna watched it draw closer and closer each time it circled around the flame, until it came too close and its wing burst into flames. Lyanna turned her gaze away, unable to continue watching the consequences unfold.

* * *

 **XVII**

* * *

"You promised!" Lyanna half screamed, half sobbed. "You promised me that they would not be harmed!"

Her accusations were like hot, painful brands. Lyanna could see her husband visibly flinch.

"I'm sorry," Rhaegar whispered almost inaudibly, coming forward to wrap her in his once-comforting arms, but Lyanna would not have any of it. She wrenched herself violently out of his grasp.

Her wails were wracked with grief, pain, wrath, and guilt; they were the walls she was building around herself, closing her off from Rhaegar and the rest of the world.

* * *

Lord Rickard Stark and his heir Brandon Stark were put to death on orders of the king less than a fortnight ago.

* * *

 **XVIII**

* * *

Lyanna watched her prince strap on his obsidian black armor with cold eyes. The red ruby encrusted in the center stood out like a campfire at night, she observed.

"Lyanna, help me please," he called softly from across the room, craning his head to look at her with sad, glittering eyes. They became black like his armor in the shade of the darkness.

Like a will-o-wisp, Lyanna silently came to his aid, an unreadable expression on her face. She stood in front of him and refused to look at him in the eye.

After fitting on the last piece, Lyanna hesitated, still unwilling to make eye contact; instead, she focused on the stone floor. Rhaegar gently took her hand and stooping down, murmured into her ear, "I'm sorry. I'll be going now."

This time, Lyanna glanced up to meet his eyes.

"You're going to break another promise," she whispered with trembling lips.

"No, not this time," Rhaegar said. "I will be coming back alive. I don't intend to lose to Robert Baratheon."

"Spare my brother, please. Spare Ned."

"Yes. I know."

It seemed so final...so saddening…so...

Mustering all the bitterness she could (regret, guilt, wishing she had thought her actions through, so many things...) Lyanna spat out her next words.

"I hate you."

Rhaegar cocked his head to one side and studied her with a neutral, calculating gaze.

Several heartbeats later, he cupped her chin with a hand, stooped down to eye level, and paused. Lyanna found that she could not look away, so she stared back defiantly. Then, painstakingly slow, Rhaegar leaned over and captured her lips in a deep, deep kiss. Lyanna felt herself freeze and burn all over, felt herself sinking, wilting like a flower to his touch (why was it that he could do this to her?).

She felt Rhaegar chuckle against her mouth. "Your lips lie, Lyanna."

* * *

 **XIX**

* * *

The months passed and her belly swelled like the waxing moon, and then -

A sharp pain hit Lyanna in the stomach like a slicing knife and caused her breath to suddenly leave her. She had been climbing the stairs of the tower, Ser Arthur Dayne in tow, when the contractions began. Lyanna leaned heavily against the stone wall, wincing from the hurt that _would not go away._

"Your grace?" Ser Arthur asked, alarmed, as he came to her side.

"The babe," was all she managed to whisper before the pain once again rendered her breathless.

The following events that ensued were a blur. Ser Arthur picked Lyanna up with strong arms and carried her up the rest of the way. A midwife was called for, or someone with some experience, and then Lyanna's maidservant was by her side, encouraging, as Lyanna brought forth her child into the world that dark and stormy night.

* * *

 **XX**

* * *

"The prince has fallen," Ser Arthur said as he stormed inside her chambers, face pale. "At the Trident, Robert Baratheon slew him. Rhaegar is dead."

Lyanna could only stare as her world crashed down on her, her newborn in her quivering arms.

The gods were cruel, Lyanna decided, or they had abandoned her. She pressed her forehead to her babe's and, closing her eyes, wept freely.

* * *

 **XXI**

* * *

"Promise me, Ned," Lyanna whispered, weakly, feeling her strength ebb away like receding ocean tides. "Protect my son."

"I promise," Ned vowed, and Lyanna knew he would keep his promise.

After her son's safety was guaranteed (Lyanna trusted Ned, Ned she could trust, her dear, quiet Ned), Lyanna closed her eyes and fell silent.

 _I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…_

* * *

 **Departure**

* * *

The cloaked figure glanced back, peering up at the highest window of the stone tower.

From her perch by the open window, a woman watched soundlessly as the horseback figure receded in the foggy distance. Meanwhile, the gray sky cried on softly.

* * *

 **Epilogue**

* * *

In arms of the young Lord Stark was a warmly swaddled babe. The infant had dark brown hair - almost black - and grey eyes like storm clouds. Lord Stark's Tully wife, Catelyn, approached warily, eying the babe with a critical eye.

"Thank the gods for your safe return, my lord," she greeted respectfully, hands clasped demurely in front of her.

"Yes, I have returned, my lady."

A moment of tense silence followed. Then, Lord Stark sighed. And so, very quietly, Ned uttered a lie, a lie which may as well have been the first in his life.

"And I come with my son as well. His name is Jon Snow."

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

Well, hmmm, this really was something to write. This fic was supposed to be somewhat vague and told in segments, leaving the reader to piece the events together. I hope it worked out like this. If not...well, there's always the ASoIaF wiki...when I wrote this, I was thinking that the reader should have some knowledge of Lyanna's "abduction" beforehand.

I hope you enjoyed this fic! It took me such a long time to write! (I had to rewrite some parts several times until I was satisfied) Please, leave a review and let me know what you think!


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